Promises
by celticann
Summary: Donna's last day in the White House


**Promises**

Josh/Donna, mentions of others

Rating Teen - mentions marital sex

Note – Growing old is no fun, and this little vignette reflects that adage. Be forewarned; some of you may find some of this disturbing.

This has been ruminating in my muse's mind for some time now; the latest incident involving a certain Republican and Elizabeth Edwards nudged her to finish it. It is based on the WW universe of "Holding Hands on the Way Down"; something similar may or may not occur in the Alternate Universe of "Fold in Gently".

Spoilers for "Holding Hands on the Way Down", maybe for "Fold in Gently".

Not mine, never were, never will be, but they consume my soul

Feedback and criticism always welcomed

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_January 20, 2039; the White House_

She had already said her good-byes to the residential staff and to the official operational staff. Now Donnatella Moss Lyman walked slowly through the West Wing. She nodded and smiled as those she passed greeted her.

"Good morning, Madame President."

"I'll miss you, Madame President."

"Thank you for all you've done for us, for the country, Madame President."

She laughed to herself at the last statement. She wondered how many party operatives, as opposed to staffers, would be thanking her today.

No one was thanking her in July, when she announced that she would no longer be able to seek reelection to office. Well, no Democrat was thanking her; lots of Republicans were thanking her publicly.

The man who would be the GOP nominee once the convention rubber-stamped the outcome of the primaries was not one of them; he was a decent man, an honorable man, as well she knew. She had been looking forward to a positive campaign, a campaign of ideas rather than one of rhetoric and rancor.

Had the party united behind her Vice-president (the logical choice, at least in her mind), it would still have been a positive campaign and she was sure that the Democrats would have prevailed. However, when the convention opened in Chicago, there were five other hats in the ring, and after ten days of floor fights, of alliances made and broken, the party settled on the governor of Montana and the junior senator from Florida as their ticket. The Democrats were not able to recover from the self-inflicted wounds and the Republicans had won back control of the White House.

At the same time, the press and the public were having a field day with her decision. Some of them criticized her, saying she was a traitor for not renewing the promise she made to God and country on her inauguration day, four years ago. Others praised her for keeping the promise she had made to God and husband some thirty years ago in the Rose Garden.

And then, out of retirement came the woman who, at the turn of the century, had been the first and quintessential embodiment of the leggy blonde Republican pundit whose outer attractiveness belied the bitter bitch within. Wasn't it convenient, she sneered to all who would listen, that the issue arose as soon as the President found out that her opponent would be someone with whom she had history? Of what was Donnatella Moss Lyman afraid? What skeletons were present in Madame President's closet?

The Republican nominee denounced the woman, of course, and not just because it was the politically correct thing to do. The man was genuinely repulsed by the attack on Donna's integrity. Many others came to Donna's defense, incensed at the cynicism that saw political opportunity in human tragedy. The repulsive old crone was driven back under the rock from which she had crawled.

"Ma'am," (she still wasn't used to being called that, and she remembered how Helen Santos had felt the same way) "the President-Elect and his party are approaching the main gate."

She turned to the aide, smiled at him and asked, "And my husband?"

"Is already in the foyer."

With one last "Thank you" to the assembled West Wing staff, she left the area to thunderous applause.

She smiled as she saw him, as he looked up at her approach. Josh's face glowed with the fire of a thousand suns. His right hand scribbled on the pad that was always nearby.

"Love you, Donnatella."

"And I love you, Joshua." She bent down to kiss her husband, her best friend, her closest ally, her biggest supporter.

He wrote again on the pad. "So unbelievably lucky."

"Yes," she answered.

And they were, she thought.

She thought of Sam, who died a little each day as Morgan, the woman who loved him enough to pick up her life and follow him across the continent not once but three times, slipped further and further into that long good-bye that is Alzheimer's.

She thought of Toby, who could only stand by and watch, love, and cherish as Andy dealt with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. She remembered Toby crying in CJ's arms, saying he wished he could suffer for Andy, even making the sick joke that as a Yankees fan, it should have been him. Donna remembered CJ telling Toby that if he ever said that again, she would kill him; Donna remembered telling Toby that if he needed to cry, that she was there for him, that he needed to keep up his spirits in front of CJ as well as Andy.

She thought again of Helen Santos, who had been kissed good-bye one morning by her husband only to be found that afternoon by the former President lying in bed, the TV remote in her hand, dead from a heart attack that was the first sign of the deformity she had apparently carried since birth.

She thought of President Bartlet, who never expected to bury his wife, the victim of an alcoholic driver; who then had to deal with his own disintegrating body and mind without the support of the woman in whom he had placed all trust.

They were not as lucky as CJ and Danny, still rejoicing in their late-found love, still healthy, still nesting in Santa Monica, even though that nest had been empty for almost eight years; not as lucky as the other members of the Bartlet administration were – Ginger and Rick, Margaret and John, Carol and David, Zoey and Charlie, Bonnie and Jean-Luc – but she thanked God for what they did have.

The stroke that Josh suffered in late June took his speech, took the muscles of his left arm and his legs. But his brilliant mind was left intact;his nervous system could still feel pleasure and pain; his eyes could still see, his ears hear, his mouth enjoy his burnt hamburgers, his muffins and bagels.

And they could still make love with each other. Granted, he could no longer raise himself above her, arching his back on rigid arms, but what he managed to do on his back, or sitting in a chair, letting her direct things – and what he could still do with his right hand and his mouth – life was good and God was to be thanked.

So on this last day in her history-making term as first woman President of the United States, just as on that day back in July when she announced to the world what she had decided as soon as the doctors told her of Josh's prognosis, Donna had no regrets. The promise of "in sickness and in health" would take precedence over the promise of "to preserve, protect, and defend", for however long God gave them.

They heard the sound of the motorcade coming to the portico. Donna dismissed the attendant and turned Josh's wheelchair to face the door.

The President-Elect had never married, had never found the right woman to share his life. His niece would be filling the role of First Lady; she and her family would be living with him.

The man smiled as he came up the steps. "Good morning, Madame President."

"Good morning, Mr. President-Elect." Donnatella Moss Lyman reached up and lightly kissed Clifford Calley on the cheek. "Welcome to your new home."


End file.
